This morning, I was woken up by what I thought was a neighbor's loud, ruthless hammering. Bam, bam, bam! However, after the sound continued for a solid ten minutes, I realized that the noise couldn't possibly be from someone hammering the wall—there'd be no wall left. Once the sleepy haze evaporated from my brain, I was able to put two and two together. Last night, San Diego received a rainstorm. What was disturbing me was the aftermath of that storm: rain falling from the gutters. Drip, drip, drip! Incessant, painful, infuriating. Now, the old me would have screamed and cussed, pulled . . .
When Stephen Stills famously sang “Love the One Your With,” I don't think he meant for this long. Depending on who you're currently quarantined (i.e. stuck) with, you might feel as if you're now part of that Rent song. You know the one I'm about talking about: 525,600 minutes . . . and counting! All joking aside, for me, self-isolation hasn't been that big of an issue. I've recently decided that I'm an introvert dressed up as an extrovert (thanks, RuPaul.) What does this mean, exactly? It means that I have absolutely no problem—even enjoy—going out with friends, drinking my face off, . . .
I'm not entirely sure if it's a preconceived notion tossed upon us once we hit our twenties or just simply the gay factor, but for me, the idea of getting older has always been met with abhorrence. Specifically, the day, hell—the minute—after my twenty-first birthday, there was this feeling that I'd hit my expiration date. That's right: The milk had turned sour, the bread stale, the red lacquer worn off the bottom of a Christian Louboutin boot. I'm not exactly sure why, though. While it's been stated more times than Jennifer Lopez (who wasn't snubbed for an Oscar nomination for her role . . .